


Library of Alexandria

by wekkabakka



Series: From Owen Carvour's Bookshelf [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Homophobia, I was trying to do smut, It just ended up sad, M/M, My First Fanfic, Period-Typical Homophobia, content warning for the libertine movement i guess, idk what else to tag, s&m and torture elements???, there's a sentence or two about iffy consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wekkabakka/pseuds/wekkabakka
Summary: Curt could practically see his reflection shiver in those teeth poised to tear into flesh. Maybe Baron von Nazi was right in wanting to revive book burning. This was already too much, and Owen’s fingers haven’t settled on one book yet.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Series: From Owen Carvour's Bookshelf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671745
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Library of Alexandria

1957\. Owen likes to read. He’s filled his shelves with dictionaries and histories, but there’s a few titles which stand out when Agent Curt Mega is at his flat. The American had to stand on his toes to closely read the spines (he would never admit to needing reading glasses before forty), the shiver running down his own spine betraying his wish to look casual. Owen was like the Dewey Decimal System in keeping the philosophy tomes from the medical ones with a makeshift bookend (as he does to all his sections), but Curt expected him to keep something named 120 Days of Sodom under his bed with a Hustler. The other books in the collection were just as sweet as that rose, with Venus In Furs and Salammbô looking especially interesting, if only because they looked more worn than the other books. They were probably so thick because of depraved illustrations. 

“What do you mean, they’re not picture books? Where’s the fun if all the sexy bits are in some vague lines without even the word ‘fuck’ in them?” Curt complained, having never even made it through Lady Chatterley’s Lover because of how…how nothing it was compared to feeling warm breath and sweat after everyone is spent. To the butterflies that flutter when his eyelids flutter innocently, begging for his partner to make him look at the filth about to transpire. To the taste of the sea created by the Poseidonic ebb and flow of their bodies. One just can’t replace the sensation of actually bedding someone with eye strain. It’s not even talking dirty, it’s less than that. Maybe that’s why Owen was into this shit— feeling pathetic gets his rocks off. That must be it, because what nerd would be into this? Not even Barb would subject herself to this when there’s new machines to make somebody feel uncharted pleasure and pain.

“We make the picture ourselves, love,” Owen retorted, an electric grin beginning to grace his lips, “From the unlimited imagination, to the ever-powerful reality.” Agent Carvour knew all too well of the brain’s impact upon sex more than any other part, and that was not solely because of his partialism to ears paling in comparison to the fantasies and ideas concocted inside that wicked skull. A wicked skull baring its teeth in primal urge.

Curt could practically see his reflection shiver in those teeth poised to tear into flesh. Maybe Baron von Nazi was right in wanting to revive book burning. This was already too much, and Owen’s fingers haven’t settled on one book yet. Those long, steady fingers were tracing the line of books which stood on the top shelf. Shame they weren’t on the bottom shelf, or else Curt could have distracted himself in the other spy bent over and irresistible. None of this feeling of equal nervousness and dread, the fear of having to listen to a man preach his unholy scripture which would surely damn him. This wasn’t sex, or even kinky sex. It was frightening. The unorthodoxy of it all was Mega’s greatest fear.

“What would you do if I read you one of these, letting you drift off mid-passage because you find it boring? Would you be out until morning?” Owen mused, index finger finally deciding on Juliette. Marquis de Sade wrote some gruesome pieces, but libertine philosophy was a dark fantasy that could be indulged in tonight. Torture, pleasure, perverting the mode of God if he so chooses, all of it in Juliette. Maybe treat this like a test and select pieces from multiple novels, reading the rules from 120 Days of Sodom, maybe a more traditional sex scene from Fanny Hill or perhaps of Severin’s sickening devotion in Venus in Furs. He quite liked to imagine Curt draped in a fur-lined kazabaika, chin raised high with a heeled Chelsea boot digging into his shoulder as he knelt in front of the cruel despot of that instance, as he whimpered to himself some nights. “Would you feel deep shame as you wake up in a cold sweat, having to work out the details that still rattle in your mind using a hands-on approach? Would you beg to say the words while I perform them upon you without mercy?” A pause. The sound of that was too good for himself to handle. “I think you could get off simply at me reading the definition of sodomy, but this will be so much for fun. How about it, dear?”

“As long as it’s not some schoolboy scenario where I have to annotate,” Curt joked nervously. He dated an English major once in college and hated the power imbalance which came with the pedagogical dynamic when they would roleplay. Call him modern, but he held the belief that a partner should give as good as they get. Owen was ancient in comparison, believing that reciprocation already occurs with imbalance, as these roles are of a natural order. 

“Very funny. I’ll have you write an alternate last verse for ‘I Sing the Body Electric’ for extra credit if tonight doesn’t go your way, Mega.”  
They both crack up at how silly this had gotten. Letting off steam indeed.

“So, how do we play this?” Curt asked, wanting to follow Owen’s lead ‘til the end. He did so whenever torture was involved, and he only had two sprained fingers and a few scars as a result. All he could do was trust the other spy. This wouldn’t all be foreign, right? Owen would probably bring this back to something kinky but familiar for his sake. Being considerate was a virtue of his when in the bedroom.

“Like always, our word is stop. I’d like to tie you to a chair. Legs apart, trousers still on—”

“Only in a future where my clothes can be torn to shreds without worry. Your games make my mother suspicious, with the amount of mending I do myself.” Mrs. Mega was insistent on cleaning everything for her son to ease to stress of the job, and the job was unforgiving to her son’s wardrobe. The Eisenhower Recession has done nothing to help alleviate the cost of new garments, so she would do her best to keep out the bloodstains while keeping in the thread.

Owen slowly shook his head with an amused look on his features. First the executive order, and now this financial mess. American politics were an oil spill: disgustingly sticky and leeching out seemingly forever across oceans. “We’ve lived in abundance for years, what’s pretending for a few more? I’ll stitch and wash your clothes anew, no worries.” 

“No worries, and fuck Eisenhower. Anything else?”

Curt watched helplessly as Owen brought out rope and a wooden chair without a seat. The frame was barely enough to support him and would mostly serve to make marks upon his thighs and back. Tenderly, the agent set down the chair and began to unbutton his partner’s shirt, noticing that the hitches in breath were more defined. A light tremor spread across Curt’s torso as Owen ran a finger along his sternum. It followed the arrow of hair to his navel and left featherlight.

“We’ll frame this like an enhanced interrogation. I’ll read these,” Owen plans aloud, holding his collection, “which act as a hypnosis method, and try to get your government’s plan out of you. If I end up breaking you instead, you’ll be recorded and thusly blackmailed.” 

Only after he’s said it does reality set in. Their careers, their lives, their families. A house of fucking cards. Curt stiffens, chin raised unnaturally high in the habit he has to appear tough. Owen hates the machismo.

There’s a silent moment between them, the closed curtain taunting. If the window strips with them, it’ll all be over. They both move to the curtain and pull it back. Catharsis.

“Look at the world. There’s a load of bad guys out there who aren’t prepared for the two of us,” Curt said, sadness making him smile at the fact. Too many bad guys to take down.

“The good guys aren’t prepared for us either.” Owen took out a cigarette, fumbling with the lighter before taking a deep drag.

They both know how he meant it. The pillars of the community: teachers, clergy, employers. Even the President of the United States. Not a single good man was on their side.

Another drag from Owen. Curt pulls out a cigarette of his own and leans in for a shared light, making sure to make eye contact during the igniting inhale. Owen couldn’t help but stare back, only remembering the window a beat too late. Oh, Curt Mega was going to be the death of him. And then those dangerous lips opened again.

“They’re not good people, then.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“We risk our lives to maintain order in the world and we can’t even celebrate a mission with a kiss. It’s horseshit.”

“That’s part of order.”

Curt could not believe Owen was playing devil’s advocate right now. “Their fucking arbitrary order. What’s order if our harmless privacy is a threat?”

“The same thing that makes an honest family man sell bombs to survive. I think a future with us in it cannot exist at the same time as the agencies. Getting rid of our secret requires the total need for secrets to be abolished.”

“Getting rid of our secret?” Philosophy was never his thing. Curt majored in math and political science. Owen had four books of Hegel alone on his shelf. Getting lost was a common occurrence in Agent Carvour’s flat.

“Removing the label of secret with something else. I would quite like the new word to be love.”

The lights outside locked into place, acting as a thousand burning suns burning into their flesh. They remained dim, unable to be purified by the effort of the buzzing society just outside the window. Curt closed the curtain abruptly, knuckles white against the cloth. He took another shaky inhale, barely keeping in a cough.

“I don’t think tonight’s the right time for us to fuck. We’ve been too emotional.” He still hasn’t let go of the curtain. It’s anchoring him to the ground, keeping him bound at that exact place.

“I know I ruined tonight for us, but when are we going to have the chance for this again?” Owen pleaded softly. He was never the type to pressure someone into sex, but there was a plan and a delicious fear in his partner. The only fear that remains now is enough to make him gag in disgust. The urge to change that was greater than any lust he could muster.

“If only we could see the future, babe. All our problems would be solved.”

“Right you are, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fic, well, any real creative work done by myself. Hope you liked it! Please give feedback because I want to continue to write, but in a way that's pleasant to read.


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